#oneaday Day 733: Distractions

Today we went to the swimming pool, the central attraction of most Center Parcs sites. We had a good time having a little swim in the nice warm outdoor "Sprudel pool" and sitting stewing in the outdoor jacuzzi for a bit. For the rest of the day, we've been trying to relax as best we can: eating good food, watching the wildlife out of the window, and in my case, finally getting around to replaying Ace Attorney: Trials & Tribulations in its Nintendo Switch incarnation. The last time I played this, it was on DS, so it's nice to play it on the big screen.

Pic, again, unrelated, but I thought you might like to see a deer.

The distractions have been good and welcome, but it's still tough, I don't think either of us will deny that. But we are at least managing to have a reasonably good time while we're away, which is the important thing. In some respects it might even be a good thing that we don't hear anything while we're away, as it means that the worst hasn't happened — or if it has, no-one has found him as yet. That means, I like to think, that he's still out there somewhere, waiting to be found — or perhaps just waiting to wander his way back one day and saunter in as if nothing had happened.

Stranger things have happened, as I've said a few times before; cats are well-known for their independence, after all, and even my beloved family pet from when I was a child disappeared for six whole weeks once, apparently. I don't remember this at all; I guess I must have been too young to remember when it happened. I do remember the time she got hit by a car and fled into a bush in a nearby field; we managed to track her down, get her to the vet, and she eventually made a full recovery, going on to live a very long, full and happy 17 years of life.

But still. As I keep saying, it almost doesn't bear thinking about right now, as far away from the situation as we are in physical terms. And I think we are slowly coming to terms with various unfortunate truths… or at least possibilities. None of them are particularly nice possibilities to contemplate, and thinking about them too much still upsets the both of us… but we are, gradually, bit by bit, able to get through each day without becoming completely non-functional.

It remains to be seen how we'll be when we get back, of course, depending on what — if anything — has transpired in the meantime. I feel like the best case scenario at this point is that he's found wandering around somewhere, taken to a vet, gets his microchipped scanned (which will immediately flag him both as missing and as living with us) and will thus be able to return to us safe and sound. But that is, I am aware, a very optimistic hope for how this will all end up.

I guess there's no point wondering "what if". The human brain doesn't work that way, however; the human brain, it seems, is uniquely designed to wonder "what if" as much as possible, as often as possible. And it's a function that, at least in my brain, it's near-impossible to turn off.

Still. It's the end of another day and, as always, we continue. Tomorrow is yet another day, and it remains to be seen what it will bring.

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#oneaday Day 732: Quiet contemplation is not always ideal

Today was our visit to the "Aqua Sana" spa here at Center Parcs, and before the events of last week happened, we were both greatly looking forward to having a day of relaxation and pampering. We did manage that for the most part, but we also found that when you get into a situation where you can relax somewhat, your mind tends to wander to places you don't necessarily want it wandering.

Pic unrelated. I just thought you might like to see a bunny. It gave us a momentary smile.

This is a problem that both Andie and I have; if we find ourselves in a silent (or near-silent) atmosphere, both our respective minds tend to go into overdrive and focus on things that are… shall we say "unproductive", or perhaps unconducive to good mental health is perhaps a better way of putting it.

To put it another way, while the Aqua Sana has plenty of absolutely lovely facilities for just lying back, relaxing and even falling asleep, the quiet, calm atmosphere of the whole place — even our fellow guests tended to speak quietly — meant that we'd often end up thinking about our dear, precious lost boy. And, as harsh as it might sound, that's not really what we wanted out of the experience; we wanted an escape for a little while, because both our respective hearts and souls are so battered, bruised and broken after all the worry and uncertainty of the last week.

Our thinking behind still coming away on our holiday was that we'd be able to draw a temporary line, enjoy ourselves as much as we could while we were away, then, if it was still necessary, continue the search upon our return; meanwhile, we knew that Andie's mum would be taking care of our house and Patti, and would be ready to welcome Oliver home if he were to find his way back by himself.

So far that has not happened, and with each passing day I find myself worrying more. Where is he? How far has he gone? Has he been able to look after himself while he is missing? Has someone taken him? Or is he in distress somewhere, alone and scared? And if that is the case, how on Earth do we find him?

I know, deep in my heart, that there is no real way that I can guarantee I will be able to find him, and I also know, deep down, that we might never see him again, or be able to say a proper goodbye if he is no longer with us. That doesn't stop it hurting, though.

Everything will be all right in the end. It always is. As my therapist says, I am a survivor. I will get through this, just like I have got through all the other challenges life has thrown my way over the years. I just never thought dear, sweet, innocent, playful little Oliver would ever present one of those challenges — at least, not for many, long, happy years of companionship, anyway.

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#oneaday Day 731: Temporary escape

Well, we did what we said we were going to do: we got away from it all. Part of me still wants to be at home waiting with open arms for Oliver to return, but it's been a week. At this point I don't know if he's more or less likely to make it home by himself after this long; apparently typically "indoor" cats tend to return home after about 5-7 days away if they go walkabout like this, but we have something of a suspicion that Oliver, from a previous life (i.e. before he moved in with us) has some memories of Being Outside, hence his apparent eagerness to go wandering off.

Regardless, we are some distance away from, practically speaking, being able to do anything about his disappearance right now, so all we can do is attempt to enjoy ourselves. We are safely ensconced in our villa, the weather is nice, and this is the view out of the back door:

Green. Green everywhere. It is nice. I feel a certain affinity for foresty settings. I have always liked coming to Center Parcs precisely because they're all slap bang in the middle of a forest, and when I was a youngster, I always used to like trips to Waresley Wood, a nearby small woods that also, as I recall, played host to a sewage works, which was nice. You could tell which way you were going from the smell in certain areas.

I always feel somewhat mixed feelings about being out in nature. I certainly, on the whole, enjoy the experience of being in natural surroundings, and find the general environment to be rather relaxing. At the same time, though, I am always very conscious of the number of things that live in Nature that are more than willing to sting me, bite me or just generally make me very itchy. And these things are not always immediately apparent — though I do tend to tread specifically carefully when I'm in an unfamiliar and somewhat "untamed" environment; memories of enduring the irritation of a brush with some stinging nettles as a kid remain surprisingly vibrant, and I'm not keen to repeat them as a grown adult.

I am hoping the time away will help us. We have been so worried for the last week that it's just completely exhausted the pair of us. As I type this, Andie has just climbed into bed and gone to sleep. It is not even 6.30pm, but I do not blame her one bit. We have been fretting so much over our silly little man, and both of us are still worrying over him, even though we've both agreed that to just go ahead with our time away is the best possible thing we can do with regard to our own self-care.

And like I've said before: Andie's mum is looking after our house and Patti while we are away, so if Oliver does happen to show his face — or if we hear from someone who has seen him — she can take any sort of action that might be needed. Hopefully, that action will just be "shut the little bugger in and seal up all the windows for the rest of eternity" but… well, as I've said numerous times over the last week, we just don't know.

Anyway, I am going to make a specific effort to try and enjoy my holiday now. We miss you, Oliver, and we would love it if we would be able to come home to your smiling face on our return next week. For now, please be safe, take care of yourself… and go make a lot of noise at a sympathetic-looking person who will help you be reunited with us.

We have no particular plans for the rest of the day. I'm off to see if Andie actually wants to wake up at all today, or if we might as well start our holiday properly from tomorrow!

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#oneaday Day 730: Having to draw a line

I have posted more than 30 more flyers about Oliver today. Andie's mum went out calling for him last night. We have put out adverts on social media, informed the microchip company, informed our local vets, informed local cat charities. We have spent several nights staying up waiting, placing stinky pants, litter trays, favourite food and treats outside. We have wandered around the neighbourhood in multiple directions shaking treats and calling for him. At this point I think we have no other option than to draw a line and say that we have done everything we possibly can do for the little bugger, and the only thing really left is just… to wait.

yellow line between feet — Photo by Oleh Budurov on Pexels.com

It's not giving up. It's an acknowledgement that we have made an effort to try and find him, and thus far those efforts have been unsuccessful. This could mean any of a number of things: that he's no longer with us; that he doesn't want to be found; that he's gone far enough afield that we haven't been able to run into him as yet; that he's lost and doesn't know how to find his way home; that he's ended up locked in somewhere he shouldn't be; or that someone has taken him in, perhaps even thinking "ooh, I always wanted a cat, I'll keep this one".

Since we don't know the exact reason we have been unsuccessful as yet, it seems like the most sensible thing to do is just to wait and see if any of the seeds we have planted — by which I mean the social media posts, the leaflets, the informing of various local organisations — will bear fruit. This may end in tragedy — I hope it won't, but it might — or it may end in joyous reunion (and a very, very grounded cat). At this point, we just don't know, and as I've said numerous times over the course of the last week, that is one of the most difficult things about the entire situation.

Because we don't know what has happened, we're left in a strange sort of emotional limbo, where all the things we want to feel are both correct and incorrect at the same time. For me, the things that I am holding onto the most are 1) that he hasn't been found, having been hit by a car, on the side of the road somewhere, and thus is hopefully still out there somewhere, and that 2) there are many, many stories of cats who go missing for weeks at a time, who then subsequently come home safe and sound. Apparently my childhood cat, Penny, disappeared for six full weeks at one point, because she had "moved in" with another family. My only concern about this latter potential situation is how to find him if this has happened, and if the people he is with are honest enough to get his microchip scanned and return him to us.

But here, at nearly 7pm on Sunday night, the day before we're going away on holiday, I think I have to draw a line and say "that's everything I can do… for now". Andie's mum is holding the fort while we are away, so if he does turn up he will have a welcoming face ready to spoil him rotten, and if he still hasn't shown up by the time we return, we can continue our efforts to search for him then.

As I say, it's not giving up. It's giving ourselves permission to take a step away from what has been a horrible, stressful week, and to give ourselves some very much needed self-care. I sincerely hope this story has a happy ending, but for now, I guess it is on a hiatus of sorts.

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#oneaday Day 729: The struggle for your emotions to be heard

One of the things I find difficult and, at times, frustrating to deal with, perhaps particularly as a person with an autistic spectrum condition, is properly conveying the emotions that I am feeling and the depth of those emotions. Our recent anguish over Oliver's disappearance is a prime example of this. I am feeling intense amounts of pain, sadness, anger, fear, grief and all manner of other emotions over this situation, on a pretty much continual basis, and yet I'm not sure if I have accurately conveyed that to anyone.

woman checking compass on trail — Photo by Ali Kazal on Pexels.com

It's not as if I haven't tried to do so. But I feel like any time I have attempted to — with the exception of my therapist yesterday, who is trained in such matters, and my family members, who have been through situations like this and thus understand — I have simply got a response that is, at best, a cursory "oh, Pete, I'm so sorry" and then nothing much after that.

I'm not really sure what I'm expecting or wanting from other people, to be honest. But something about it just doesn't quite feel… "enough", you know? I am here, devastated at the potential loss of a family member — because make no mistake, Oliver is a family member — and I feel like a lot of people I've expressed this to have pretty much forgotten this fact almost as soon as they have given the appropriate response as defined by the unwritten social contract we all agree to.

To be clear, I'm not angry at anyone who has responded this way and I'm not annoyed that very few people have reached out to see how I'm doing as the week goes on. I know that everyone has their own things going on in their lives, and their own priorities of things to care about. I cannot reasonably expect people who are not directly involved in this situation to care about it as much as I do. I know that.

But I think what the problem is, is that this is putting my overall loneliness somewhat into perspective. There simply are not very many people left in my life that I feel like I can express these things to, and that they will give a shit. It is at times like this where you really feel like you need people in your life to support you, to uplift you, to distract you from the dark thoughts swirling around inside your head, and when you simply don't really have that outside of your immediate family members, it can feel a tad difficult to deal with.

I think about how I might feel if someone close to me was dealing with such mental anguish, and how I would want to be there to support them. I think about how I have been with people who were once close to me who have been through similarly challenging periods of intense, sustained emotion. Perhaps I am the one who overdid it? Perhaps I was overbearing, smothering? I don't know. It felt like the right thing for me to do at the time, and the people in question seemed to appreciate it, too.

It's just so difficult. Like I say, I really don't know what emotion I am really "supposed" to be feeling right now, because the fact is I simply still do not know what the situation actually is. All I know is that Oliver is missing, and his condition is unknown. And until we learn something more about what has actually happened, that uncertainty is going to be probably the leading cause of the intense sadness and frustration that both Andie and I are feeling right now.

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#oneaday Day 728: Giving yourself permission to smile

The thing about a grieving process — whether it is a result of tangible loss or, as in our situation, simply not knowing what has happened — is that it can very quickly and easily become all-consuming. It can take over your entire life; your entire mind; your entire heart; your entire soul.

silhouette of man sitting in contemplation — Photo by Andrew Patrick Photo on Pexels.com

There isn't necessarily anything wrong with that. Suffering a loss, regardless of the circumstances, is a difficult thing to contend with, and each of us approach the situation differently. Some of us prefer to completely, wilfully enrobe ourselves in the darkness for a time, then come out of the other side if not necessarily feeling "better", then at least feeling some form of closure and acceptance. Others of us take a more long-term approach, finding ourselves spending a portion of each day in quiet (or not-so-quiet) reflection on our loss, but trying to get on with things. Others still push all that grief and hurt down for as long as possible, then end up exploding in a passionate, emotional outburst once the pressure becomes too much for a mind, heart and soul to bear.

There is no one right way to grieve, and there is no wrong way to grieve, either. But it is easy to find yourself in a situation where you feel like you should be grieving all the time, and by extension end up feeling a curious sort of guilt if you are not actively grieving. To put it another way, one can feel like one is not "allowed" to do anything fun or joyful during a period of grief; it can feel something along the lines of "inappropriate" or "disrespectful" or maybe even "lazy" to not be actively grieving, even if that process is not particularly achieving anything. It can feel wrong to do something that you know will make yourself feel better, because some part of you wants to say that you don't deserve to feel better for one reason or another.

I know I am particularly prone to this. It happens any time I go through a grieving process. I find it very difficult to do regular, everyday things while I am going through such a process; there's a little voice in my head that repeatedly says that I should continue to feel bad about the bad thing that happened, that I should continue to be sad, that I should feel guilt over it, to the exclusion of being able to derive joy from things that, on a less unusual day, would be my go-to way of relaxing and unwinding.

I talked about this with my therapist today, and I already knew the answer, but talking about it made it easier to process. The answer is that you have to actively and explicitly give yourself permission to smile. It might feel difficult to smile, it might feel difficult to find something to smile about, but one sure-fire way of doing your own mental health a serious mischief is refusing yourself the permission to process something that is not miserable altogether. No-one can live in complete darkness in perpetuity; it's why it's a form of torture. And if there's one thing you really shouldn't do, it's torture yourself, particularly if the situation is one for which there is no real sense of culpability, and thus grounds for "punishment".

Thus, while we continue to feel all manner of emotions while we grieve for the uneasy, unknown, unresolved situation in which we find ourselves with Oliver, we must allow ourselves the permission to smile. We must allow ourselves the permission to take care of our own wellbeing. We must allow ourselves the permission to step back from the darkness and take a break to breathe, regroup, refocus and perhaps even reframe how we look at things.

This is, as you might expect, weighing very much on my mind given that we are supposed to be going on holiday on Monday. Without allowing ourselves the permission to relax while we are away, we will never be able to use that time away to rest, recover and recuperate from what has been a very trying time — and, if need be, to continue to face that trying time with renewed strength and fortitude on our return.

And thus I, here and now, give myself permission to smile. It does not mean I love Oliver any less, nor does it mean that I want him to return any less. It means that I am at least attempting to take care of myself, and the people closest to me. It's all I can do at a time where we simply do not know what will happen next.

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#oneaday Day 727: The longest days

In the grand scheme of things, it has only been a few days since Oliver went missing, but it feels like an absolute eternity. I am still refusing to give up on him — in fact, after I type this, I'm going to go out for a bit again — but it is getting very difficult to know what to do. Should I stay around the local area, given that we have seen absolutely no sign of him? Or should we spread our search a little further afield? There's a sports centre nearby that probably has lots of bushes a cat could hide in, so I think I might wander up in that direction this evening. In the absence of any sort of clues whatsoever, I can't think of anything else to do, other than to just go around the same area we've covered for the last few nights.

Apparently mostly indoor cats are inclined to head for home after around 5-7 days of being away, and indeed in the various Facebook and Nextdoor groups I've been dropping into over the course of the last few days, there are a lot of reports of cats that just turned up again after roughly this long — a lot more reports in that regard than those that remained missing for longer, or which… I don't even want to say it, even though I know it is a distinct possibility, especially the longer he is absent.

I guess the one thing I can vaguely take heart from is that because Oliver is microchipped (as is the law now, I believe), if he was to be found, we would have heard something. And we have not heard anything, which means that he is still out there somewhere. What state he's in, I have no idea, but he is still out there somewhere. And I just have to try and cling on to that for now.

Every time Patti looks out of the window, I am hoping that I'll just see his cheeky face looking back up at us, as if to say "what?" Every time our cameras report that there is movement outside, I hope that I'll see him sauntering around the corner as if nothing had happened. Every noise I hear outside, I hope I'll see his little golden eyes shining back at me.

I guess we just have to keep looking, keep hoping and keep waiting. Andie's mum is coming down on Saturday to help us keep looking if we haven't already been able to find him (or if he hasn't already found us). She was coming down anyway to look after the cats while we go away, so we are just going to try and enjoy our holiday as best we can under the circumstances, since it is too late for us to cancel and get a refund, otherwise we would have done that. That means someone is here while we are away, and will be able to keep an eye out for him, be here if he suddenly decides or manages to come home, and be able to go pick him up or whatever is needed if someone finds him and calls him in.

My heart is broken and my mood is pitch black. I don't know what to do. No-one prepares you for something like this, because there is no way you can prepare someone for something like this. All I can really do is refuse to give up completely. Our little man must have some street smarts; our little man must be able to find his way home. He must. He must.

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#oneaday Day 726: False hope

We have run into a ginger cat in the area where our caller yesterday reported seeing him (we think it was a "him" anyway) — both at night and, just now, in the daytime, and unfortunately, it was not Oliver. This cat was a very good cat, and quite friendly — though also a tad skittish — but it became clear before long that it wasn't our little boy.

We were extremely torn when we came across him last night, as the darkness made it difficult to see him clearly, and obviously, looking out, as we are, for a young ginger cat and then suddenly seeing one… well, you want to hope for the best, don't you? Both of us were feeling such desperation to see Oliver again that we were both having serious doubts about whether or not this cat, standing in front of us, was our special little man. Regretfully, we left him to it, as it looked like his home was somewhere near where we were looking — and when I ran into him earlier today, in the daytime, when it was much easier to see, I confirmed that it wasn't him. It didn't stop me involuntarily gasping when I first saw him come around the corner… but that hope was quickly dashed.

All this, of course, doesn't mean that he's not still out there somewhere, but it does mean that our one promising-seeming lead turned out to be unhelpful, and that is immensely demoralising. Andie is near-inconsolable right now, and I'm pretty sure if I stop Doing Things I will get into a similar state. That's why I went out on the trip where I ran into our ginger friend earlier; I can't just sit here and do nothing.

I'm gradually spreading the word online. Turns out there are quite a few places online where you can report missing pets, and not just Facebook. Some of these places want you to pay a bit, but the cost is primarily for them making a social media ad and then "boosting" it on your behalf. Don't worry, I researched all these places thoroughly before giving them any details. Naturally they want to try and reassure you that they have a solid success rate at this sort of thing, but we're both finding it very difficult right now.

Why hasn't he come home? Where has he gone? Is he hurt? Is he — and this is, of course, the one that hurts the most to consider — even still alive? The absolute worst thing about all this is not knowing. The one faint hope I cling to is that there are so many reports of cats that wandered off one evening and came back about 5-7 days later as if nothing had happened. I am hoping beyond hope that this is what will happen with Oliver — though it would be nice if he'd consider doing this a bit sooner.

As I say, the worst thing is not knowing, because it means I don't know how I should be feeling. Should I be hopeful? Should I be worried? Should I be sad? Should I be angry? Should I give up? Or should I keep believing that it'll all work out, somehow.

Unfortunately, bitter life experience has taught me that it does not, in fact, always work out, somehow. And thus, once again, we continue. Because that's all we can do.

I'm sorry this is all I'm talking about at the moment. But this is all I can think about at the moment.

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#oneaday Day 725: A spark of hope

Oliver still hasn't come back. We are, of course, still extremely worried and upset, and this is made all the more difficult by the fact that Patti has clearly realised something is wrong, too. She is very obviously looking around to try and find him, and earlier she let out an absolutely plaintive wail of a meow that made my heart absolutely break. I know, Patti. I want to make noises like that, too. But there is, at least, a faint spark of hope.

We've previously posted Oliver's picture and details on some local Facebook pages — the one thing Facebook is actually still vaguely useful for — and earlier today we took around a bunch of flyers to the houses and flats in the nearby vicinity. In the mid-afternoon I got a call from someone down the road; they weren't sure it was Oliver, but they had definitely seen a ginger cat on their back wall recently, and thought that he was "a very friendly chap".

Now, we're trying not to get our hopes up too much, because we know there is another ginger cat in the neighbourhood. The lady who called sounded like she hadn't seen the cat she saw before, however, which leads me to believe that it might, just might have been Oliver. There's also the fact that Andie has apparently encountered "the other ginger cat" and said that it was rather skittish as opposed to friendly; Oliver, meanwhile, has always got along with absolutely everyone he meets, and the personality of the cat our caller described very much sounded like him.

So we have not given up. We cannot give up. I refuse to give up. My heart is battered and bruised and broken from the last few days, and it is difficult to derive any joy from anything. But I cannot give up. I will not give up. He must be out there somewhere, and all we need to do is bring him home.

I do not yet know how we are going to do that, or indeed where he is. But this one little happening today helped me feel just one little spark of hope about the whole situation, and that is something that has been sorely needed since late on Sunday night.

I, of course, do not know how this particular episode of our lives is going to turn out. There is always the possibility that it will end in tragedy, and that is something I don't think I am prepared for. But, as my therapist has said to me on multiple occasions now, I am a survivor, and while I have faced many hardships on life's journey to date, I have made it through all of them so far.

I don't want to have to keep being a survivor, though. I want things to be nice, and happy, and free of worry, and neat. Life, however, is far from neat; simple existence is one of the messiest things imaginable, and I have not yet figured out how — or even if it's possible — to tidy it up.

And so, we continue. For now, we continue, not knowing. Tonight we will walk the streets once again in search of our beloved little man. And tomorrow is another day, whatever that might bring.

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#oneaday Day 724: Our cat is missing

Last night, one of the many "worst nightmare" situations a pet owner can encounter occurred: we realised that one of our beloved cats, the 3-year old ginger Oliver, was not anywhere to be seen. He often roams around the house a bit when it comes to our bedtime, so I wasn't initially concerned; I can usually find him if I go and poke about a bit. He's not a "hider" by any means; in fact, at the witching hour, he's normally playing around. He is an indoor cat, though, so aside from his enclosed "catio" in the back garden, which he can access via a cat flap, he's not allowed out.

I became worried when I couldn't find him as quickly as I normally do, and he wasn't responding to me calling him. And thus our only conclusion is that somehow, he managed to escape, quite possibly through one of the windows we had open for ventilation. We obviously don't like to think he'd be dumb enough to fling himself out of an upstairs window, but he is a very curious boy and we have caught him sticking his head out for a look on more than one occasion.

We searched the house, including all the hiding spots we knew of. Our other cat, Patti, very much is a hider, and thus we have a pretty good understanding of the various nooks and crannies a cat can potentially get into in our house. He didn't appear to be in any of them — and he's the sort of cat who, if he got stuck somewhere, I feel would probably make some noise, particularly if we were calling for him and shaking a packet of treats.

We also checked our home security cameras, and saw that he went upstairs at just before 10.30PM. The cameras did not appear to record him coming down again, leading us to believe that he is either upstairs (seemingly unlikely, as our search would suggest) or he went out one of the upstairs windows that a cat could squeeze through with a bit of effort. The cameras could have just missed him, of course, but they're generally pretty good at catching both him and Patti.

So we did what cat owners do in this situation, and we didn't go to bed for a long time, taking a couple of wanders around the neighbourhood in the hope that we might either find him or be able to coax him out. We eventually called it a night at well after 2AM, as we both had to work in the morning and we thought we should probably at least try and get some sleep. (That didn't really happen.)

We got up again about 5AM for another look around — again, no sign of him. Or at 9AM, either. In some ways, this is mildly reassuring; we hadn't found him injured (or worse) anywhere, which leads me to the optimistic conclusion — I have to be optimistic, I have to be — that he's gone and got himself locked in someone's shed, garage, greenhouse or whatever. We've done another few "rounds" throughout the day, reported his microchip number as missing (so if someone turns him in to a vet or cat shelter or something, they can get him back to us) and posted on a few local Facebook groups. Nothing as yet, and we are both despairing.

Oliver is such a precious little boy. He is everything to us. (Apart from the bit of everything that belongs to Patti, who is also everything to us.) I feel sick to my stomach (quite literally; I've barely eaten anything all day) not knowing where he is, whether he's hurt, whether he's scared, whether he's trapped or anything really. As I say, I have to remain optimistic; I have to just tell myself that this is something that sometimes happens when you have cats — I've spoken to a lot of people who have been through this experience today, with some being left not knowing what to think for months — and I cannot, will not give up hope on my precious little boy.

It's just the absolute worst that this has happened during both a stressful time at work, and just before Andie and I are going away on holiday. The last thing we want while we're supposed to be away relaxing is not knowing what has happened to one of our beloved pets — members of our family.

If you happen to be in the Southampton area, particularly around Lordswood, here's a flyer we're going to put through some doors tomorrow. If, by some fortuitous combination of circumstances, you happen to see him, please get in touch.

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